


Your Ghost is Dragging Me Down

by SanityisOverrated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Fluff, Hallucinations, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:09:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanityisOverrated/pseuds/SanityisOverrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been almost exactly three years since Sherlock fell. John's made it, barely. As the three year anniversary approaches, he finds himself in doubt of his sanity though, as he could swear he keeps seeing Sherlock around town. He can dismiss it happening once or twice, but five times? Surely he's being haunted, because Sherlock is dead... isn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Ghost is Dragging Me Down

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  This image is not mine. [Asherlockedwizard](http://asherlockedwizard.tumblr.com/) of tumblr has that privilege. I asked for her permission to use it, and was graciously granted the right. Thank you!

It had been three years. Three very long years, but John had gotten through them. Often he stopped to look around and would just have a thought of what Sherlock would say at that moment, and that hurt the most. His voice grew more and more faint as the years passed though, and it got easier as it did.

That first anniversary was the hardest. John woke up, remembered what day it was, and instantly felt his stomach drop. He never thought he’d be able to get up, but finally swung his legs over the edge and got to the bathroom to take a cold shower.

He went about his day in a haze. Everyone seemed to know what day it was. He avoided calls from Lestrade, his sister, who had gotten sober after seeing what the grief had done to him and realizing that she would be alone if someone wasn’t there for him, and Mrs. Hudson. In the aftermath of the fall, he had moved out.

Mrs. Hudson would have starved before she kicked him out for not being able to pay the rent, but John couldn’t handle the memories. He made an excuse about feeling bad that he was keeping her up with his nightmares. Screaming, sobbing ones that ruined both their nights. He started taking sleeping pills to deal with it until he was woken up by Lestrade shortly after the fall.

“John. Thank god.” Lestrade had practically crumpled onto the bed after John opened his eyes.

“Greg? What are you doing here?” He mumbled fuzzily.

“You weren’t answering your phone, or responding to Mrs. Hudsons calls, so... she called me.”

John was instantly awake at the implication of that.

“You didn’t...” He trailed off. It was useless. Of course they had. He had been ignoring everyone for the past two weeks, unsure of how to live his life without his best friend, the man who had made him live again, the man he had fallen for. He stopped that thought with a shake of his head and sat up.

“I’m fine, Lestrade.” He said stiffly. Greg nodded, took a shuddering breath and stood up with a sigh.

“Call me anytime.” He said tiredly. John nodded, feeling guilty. Clearly Greg was suffering as well. He had known Sherlock longer than John had, but there was obviously a difference in their relationships. Lestrade hadn’t watched his best friend plummet off that hospital, didn’t have to have the experience repeated in his nightmares every night.

He watched Greg leave with a heavy heart and a pounding head.

 

It was two months until the three month anniversary when John had his first hallucination. He didn’t know what else to call them, because they were impossible. Despite his begging Sherlock to not be dead, after the first year, that hope had died.

 

The first time, he was walking home from the local Tesco, when he saw a head of black curls bobbing above the rest of the crowd. His heart skipped a beat, but he shook his head and scolded himself. Lots of people had black curls. But that arrogant stride had been so familiar...

 

It was only a week later when the second hallucination happened as a taxi passed him. Traffic was backed up, and he was walking home from work, as his new apartment wasn’t that far from it, when he looked up as some crazy driver swerved around several taxis. It passed him and in slow motion he looked at the passenger and saw those curls, now a reddish color, that jaw and those cheekbones in profile to him.

He blinked and it was gone. He would be sure it had been a hallucination if he hadn’t seen the aftermath, taxis screeching, drivers cursing, people stopping to watch. As it was, he spent the rest of his walk telling himself that he was just imagining those features on faces that looked similar.

The third time was three weeks later and he had almost forgotten about it. That is, until he watched a man with a coat remarkably similar to Sherlocks run across the street in front of him. Surely, he rationalized, there was more than one coat of that type being worn, but the fact that it was the third time concerned him. He was past that, wasn’t he?

 

 

The fourth time was at St. Barts, and made him conclude that it must be a ghost. Sherlock's ghost was haunting him. Mike had invited him out for a drink, but had texted to say he'd be late. John thought he'd pay a visit to the old place, see what had changed. He hadn't been there in a year or two. Not much had changed.

He remembered Molly, and decided he could spare a couple minutes to say hi to her. He went downstairs, but stopped in his tracks when the door to the morgue opened and a figure rushed out, coat collar pulled up, and head down. They disappeared around the corner and John felt his heart stutter.

"John?" He didn't hear the voice that called out.

"John, are you alright?" He fell back into reality with a half sob, half desperate gasp to get air back into his lungs.

"Molly?" He said, seeing her in front of him.

"Yeah. Are you alright? You're looking kind of pale." She asked gently, with that quiet concern of hers.

"Yeah, yeah... I'm fine. Just zoned out for a moment." He said dazedly. She nodded and wrung her hands together anxiously.

"I should let you get back to work. Just meant to pop in and say hi really quick." John said quickly. She smiled up at him, and John mentally winced at seeing how glad she was for a friendly face. He should visit more often.

"Thanks. I was just in the middle of... well... I suppose no one wants to hear about that." She blushed. John smiled.

"It's alright, I've been there too." He said quietly. "It was good to see you, Molly. I should go, I'm meeting Mike for a pint. I'll see you around then?"

She nodded sadly. "Yeah, see you around." She turned and John watched her walk back into the morgue before turning around with a heavy sigh. Perhaps relaxing over a pint would help. Although he doubted Mike would be very impressed if he told him he was seeing ghosts now.

 

The fifth time was on the three year anniversary. Each year it got better, but it was still incredibly hard to get up that morning. John woke up slowly, and rolled over with a heavy sigh. His mobile buzzed on the stand beside him, but he ignored it. It was probably Lestrade, who, despite the distance that had grown between them, always made an effort to call him and meet him for a beer on this date.

His alarm went off, and he grunted. He turned it off and got out of bed, putting on the water for tea before he ambled off for a shower. When it turned cold halfway through, he cursed and shut it off quickly, grimacing as he felt suds trail down his face from his hair. He ended up rinsing it in the sink, a towel around his waist, until his kettle shrieked in his ear because the water was boiling.

“Fuck!” He jerked his head up, only to encounter the spigot on his way up and spray water everywhere. He slowly maneuvered his head out from under the spray, and grabbed the kitchen roll that he kept near his sink. He surveyed the results with a sigh, and went to grab the kettle off the stove.

He cleaned up the mess with a pounding headache, his tea getting cold on the table behind him. It was only when he looked at the time that he realized how late it had gotten. He was supposed to meet Mrs. Hudson at the cemetery in half an hour. He ran to get dressed, cursing his luck.

\--

“Mrs. Hudson,” He greeted her as he got out of the taxi.

“Oh John, there you are. I was getting worried.” She tutted, turning to him with a smile nonetheless.

“Just had a bit of trouble with the gas, that’s all. Sorry I’m late.” He said contritely.

“There there dear, no harm’s come of it. I’ve got some flowers for both of us.” She said.

“Flowers! Mrs. Hudson, you’re an angel, I’m afraid in the chaos I quite forgot to grab some.” John said, taking them and kissing her cheek.

“You’re a smooth one you are, John Watson.” She said with a delighted laugh. John offered her his arm and she took it, sobering up.

“Let’s go see Sherlock then.” She said quietly. They made their way quietly to the grave, and stopped in front of it, both of them reminiscing.

Mrs Hudson leaned down and lay her flowers against the gleaming black stone. John followed suit, tactfully ignoring as she blew her nose beside him. She always grew flustered if he tried to comfort her.

"Sherlock, you silly man, we miss you." Mrs. Hudson finally said softly. John gave in and reached around to squeeze her shoulders. She sagged into him for a moment, then braced herself and drew away.

"Fancy a cuppa, dear?"

"That sounds nice Mrs. Hudson." John answered wearily. He had an internal war with himself going on as he stared at the headstone. Every year, he said something to it as if, for one fleeting moment, Sherlock was there before him, alive and well.

"I'll be waiting at the car then. Take your time dear."

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson, I'll be right there."

John stared at the stone for another couple minutes before breaking the silence.

"You're a git. I'm still so hung up on you that I'm seeing you around town. Of course you would haunt me." John gave a short, sharp laugh at that. "Sherlock. Life without you is miserable, and I'll never be the same. I suppose I should thank you for that. But dammit, I need you to release this hold you have over me. It's dragging me down, and some days I don't have the strength to resist."

The ground grew fuzzy beneath him and he choked on a desperate gasp for air. It was half sob, half laugh, before he finally got control of himself and dashed a hand over his eyes.

"I'll never forget you Sherlock. No one can ever persuade me to think of you as anything else other than a hero, even you. See you next time." He paused, hand drifting out, before he jerked himself back and turned to walk towards where Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him patiently. A flash drew his eyes, and he saw a familiar figure turn away. The red orange hair had drawn his gaze, but he could swear the figure was a doppelganger for Sherlock if not for the hair. His breath caught in his throat before he scolded himself and turned back towards Mrs. Hudson.

 

It was always pleasant to chat with Mrs. Hudson. Her meaningless chatter soothed him for a couple hours, but as night drew closer, he made his excuses and grabbed a taxi back to his apartment. His life now wasn't so bad. There was no excitement, nothing to truly look forward to. No surprise waiting around the corner, like there had been with Sherlock, whether it had been a case or an experiment waiting for him in the morning.

He sighed, paid the cabbie, and shuffled around for his key as he walked to the door. He noticed nothing out of sorts, so when he walked into the living room and there was a figure sitting down, embraced by the dim lights that were outside his apartment, he was taken completely unawares.

"What the-!?" He swore and backpedaled desperately, mind flashing to Moriarty for the barest second. His training kicked in, and he darted forward, grabbing the figure in a hold that bent him backwards, putting his height to a disadvantage.

"John. John! It's me!"

John slowly looked up.

"Now I know I'm crazy. Shit." He mumbled to himself as he stared at Sherlock, who was twisting around to look at John. John slowly released him, and Sherlock fell into the chair in a heap.

"You're not crazy." Sherlock said slowly, getting up cautiously after he untangled himself. John twitched.

"Look. Touch me." Sherlock said. John shook away the thoughts that immediately came to mind, and stared at the phantom in front of him as it slowly moved closer and reached out a hand slowly. The touch on his cheek was cool, and light. He didn't realize he had leaned into it until Sherlock drew in a ragged breath and jerked his hand away. There was no light, so John had no idea what his expression was.

He dodged around the tall figure before him and switched on the kitchen light, turning on the water for tea before slowly turning back.

"So... you're.... alive." His world was rocking on its axis. Sherlock was alive.

"Does that mean I'm not crazy in thinking I've been seeing you around this past month or so?" He suddenly asked.

Sherlock grimaced. "I was getting careless. My job was done, but Mycroft had me finalizing things, and I was trying to stay away, but sometimes you were just there and I couldn't resist the urge to see you."

"Your 'job'?" John questioned sharply.

"Taking care of Moriarty's men." Sherlock answered simply. John drew in a breath at that, and looked at Sherlock closer. He was thinner. Good god, those cheekbones really would cut something now. His face was drawn, hair lackluster, and he slumped as he sat back down. Sherlock might have sprawled all over the place, but he always made it an artful gesture, nothing as graceless as this.

"Three years." John said quietly. "I mourned you in vain for three years."

"It was never in vain! If they had known I was alive, you, as well as Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, would've died!" Sherlock protested.

"And I couldn't have been notified? Do you know what it was like? For all of us?" For me, he thought quietly, closing his eyes and remembering all the times during that first year that he had thought it might have been easier to follow Sherlock. His gun, pills... it would've been too easy for him.

"John." Sherlock was suddenly close, and John opened his eyes in surprise. Sherlock was looming over him, looking at him sharply.

"Christ, Sherlock." John said wearily.

"I've talked to Lestrade. He told me... how things were." So much was implied in those words. John winced, knowing Greg would've told Sherlock about the time when everyone actually thought he had given up.

"So Lestrade knew all this time?" John asked angrily, trying to distract Sherlock from the look that was on his face as he stared at John. It drove the breath out of him.

"No. Only for the last month or so while I adjusted to being alive again." There was a lifetime of weariness in those words, and John paused, knowing all too well what that felt like. It was what he had felt like after coming home from Afghanistan. That look in Sherlocks eyes was one his own had echoed.

"Moriarty's men, they're all... dead?" He asked carefully. Sherlock nodded, his eyes glazing over as he remembered. John felt a pang in him at the look in Sherlocks eyes. They were harder, weary, and had seen too much death.

"Tea?"

"I'd love some, thank you."

John stopped and stared at him in shock. Sherlock smirked, but only lifted an eyebrow in response. John shook his head and continued into the kitchen. As he prepared the tea, his mind buzzed with the shock of it all.

"You're thinking really loudly, you know." Sherlocks voice came from the doorway and John started.

"Oh, um, sorry." He mumbled, thinking Sherlock, for all that he had changed, was still the same as he handed him his tea.

"Don't apologize. I've spent far too long in silence these past three years. It's nice to be able to talk and listen." Sherlock said quietly. It was so out of character for him that John could only stare in silence, his mouth open a bit. Sherlock sighed and turned to go sit down.

"Don't be so shocked. It was three years, something was bound to change." He said irritably. John smiled. There's the Sherlock he knew.

"So... that was you then, around... I thought I was seeing your ghost." John said accusingly. Sherlock smiled.

"To be fair, not all of those were on purpose. The taxi, St. Barts and coming across you on the street... Mycroft barely had enough time to warn me at St. Barts. It probably would've been better if I had just hidden, I didn't realize you were so close."

John growled. "Molly was there. She knew, didn't she?"

"Well, someone had to help me pretend to be dead. None of the others like me that much. Her help was essential."

"I saw her that day, spoke to her. She didn't seem any different." John said in quiet amazement.

"Yes, Molly seems to have gained a bit of courage these last few years." Sherlock said with some amusement. John snorted.

"After dealing with you for so long, I'm sure nothing will surprise her now."

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, well, perhaps that's for the best."

John nodded, then frowned. "Hang on. You were there today, at the grave, weren't you?" It was weird to be talking about Sherlocks grave, with the man in front of him, quite alive.

"Yes. I thought about approaching you, but didn't want to scare Mrs. Hudson."

"She would've beat you senseless." John smiled.

"Yes, yes she would've, after the shock passed. Still. I was worried about her health if I suddenly appeared alive at my own grave."

John rubbed a hand over his face wearily. Sherlock retreated back into the living room and sat down. John took the chair opposite the sofa and just stared at him, taking in the nuances of his face, how he had changed.

"You've got more grey in your hair now."

"Yeah, well, I don't have your genetics or bone structure. You look the same, you git."

Sherlock smiled, and John found himself just reveling in it.

"John." Sherlock suddenly said, his voice deeper than it had been before. John shivered, having forgotten what it could do to him.

"What?"

"I know how to read lips."

John blinked. "And?"

"I was in such a position at the grave that I could read your lips. How come you never told me?"

John flashed back to saying 'hung up on you' and felt himself go a furious red.

"I didn't want things to change."

Sherlock nodded. "I thought as much. Perhaps three years ago, I couldn't have been bothered. But, after being away for so long, I found myself missing your company. Realizing what you meant to me."

John couldn't breathe. Sherlock got up, setting his teacup down and came across the room until he was standing before the ex-soldier.

"John, breathe." He said gently. John inhaled sharply, his eyes on Sherlocks face.

"Sherlock, don't play with me. I couldn't stand it."

"Oh no, I wouldn't fool around on a matter such as this." Sherlock said somberly. He rested his hand on Johns knee, and John felt his heart rate go up, if that was even possible at the rate it was going currently.

"John, do you still have feelings for me?" Sherlock inquired. John flushed red, but nodded and looked away. A cool hand met his jaw and directed his face towards Sherlock again, who was leaning closer.

"Sherlock, if you cross that line, it can't be uncrossed." John said desperately as Sherlock closed in.

"Good. While I was gone, I could think nothing else of how boring my life would be without you. I would die of boredom in my retirement. Or starve after forgetting to eat while I studied my bees."

"Bees?"

"Yes, bees, John. Eventually I hope to retire to the country to study bees. With you by my side." He finished quietly. John closed his eyes, able to picture it. A smile quirked his lips.

"Only you, Sherlock."

"Only me what?"

"Only you would retire, with that great mind, to study bees."

"John, you don't understand the intricacies of bees and how they live." Sherlock protested. John snickered.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to learn if we're going to retire with some."

After the comment sunk in, he watched Sherlocks head jerk up and turn the full force of that gaze on him.

"John," he breathed. His head lowered, and John met him halfway. It was an affirmation of Sherlock being real, until he ran out of oxygen. He pulled back with a gasp, leaning his head onto Sherlocks chest as he hovered over him.

"We should..." Sherlock started. John hummed. After a minute, he pulled back with a sigh.

"Dinner?" He asked with a smile.

"I'm sure Angelo would be more than happy to see us." Sherlock said in answer. John laughed, then nodded.

"And he won't even be surprised about this." He said, reaching and taking Sherlocks hand. Sherlock huffed a laugh before pulling away, letting John get up. He hadn't moved however, so they stood there, sharing the same space for a moment. John leaned into him, and breathed in, getting a lung full of the familiar scents, as well as some new ones. There was dust, formaldehyde, grass, and then underneath, nicotine and the clean smell of Sherlock.

John pulled back and glared. "Have you been smoking again?"

Sherlock looked sheepish.

"Sherlock!"

They gathered up their coats and walked out the door, John still scolding Sherlock as he locked the door, then turned to Sherlock and grasped his hand as they waited for a taxi. There would be time to discuss their future later. Right now they had this moment to live in, and appreciate.

**  
\--**

**Author's Note:**

> Unedited, unbritpicked, and the story keeps running away, so I'm posting before they come up with something else that will end up giving me another 3k and take days to edit. Sorry! Hope you enjoy!


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